Cold walk today, below freezing with 30mph north winds. I missed my long hair.
The new route I walk at lunch has me crossing a wide green space at a local college, then up a steep grassy hill dotted with small fir trees. Today was into the teeth of the wind, so I put my head down and fixed my eyes on green-grey December grass. As I slogged up the hill, I imagined I was trudging through moorish grass in the Desert of Wales.
much peace,
tjb
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Monday, December 1, 2014
Yes, Football Matters
....but I don't really care about Nebraska football.
Spontaneous late November football that happens to occur in Nebraska, however, is immediately and wonderfully important.
Do days get better than this?
much peace,
tjb
Spontaneous late November football that happens to occur in Nebraska, however, is immediately and wonderfully important.
Do days get better than this?
much peace,
tjb
Football Matters?
Well, the Omaha World Herald got their scalp. Lee Barfknecht has spent the last 24 hours furiously masturbating in an OWH restroom, while Steve Sipple from the Lincoln Journal Star sobbed uncontrollably at the door to Bo Pelini's office.
I'm ambivalent about Pelini, and thus about his firing. I think he's actually a pretty good guy and, in my inexpert opinion, a pretty good coach, but I don't really care that he's gone. I mean, he didn't win an outright conference title in his ninth season like Saint Tom Holy Christ Almighty Osborne, and he didn't finally win a national title in his 21st season like St. Tom H.C.A. Osborne, but at least Pelini didn't intimidate Kate McEwen and her family and sweetly coddle the guy who assaulted her, and at least he didn't help to hide Riley Washington's gun from the cops. Real Men Don't Use Porn,apparently, but they do drag women down the stairs, slap them around, then star in the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl.
What Pelini did do, alas, was hurt and offend Dirk Chatelain's gold-plated vagina so severely that Dirk cried bitter black and white years all over the newspaper for almost a year afterward. If only Bo had supported the assault and battery of college age women, but did so in a dry, folksy way that amused and simultaneously stroked the tender egos of OWH sportswriters.... Oh well, the only person who really suffers in all of this is Poor Dirk. After all, what is he going to cry about now?
Update: In case you don't know how Chatelain earned the contempt of Bo Pelini (along with that of any actual man who has attached and descended testicles), Chatelain penned a horribly constructed piece of shit hatchet job (which is almost exclusively what Chatelain does) about Taylor Martinez in 2011, then got a touch of the vapors and almost fainted away when Pelini called him on it at a press conference. The rest of the Omaha World Herald sportswriters all boiled out to white knight for Fair Maiden Dirk, and they've all been on the same ovulation cycle since. Those testosterone-devoid Sallys not only think nothing of ripping a 19-year-old ballplayer who played hurt and left it all on the field, they also believe they are Entitled to do so without any response or criticism leveled in their direction.
Fact: Chatelain is a simpering little weasel of a jock sniffer who desperately wants entry into the world of athletic male balls, but then is shocked, (shocked, I tell you!!!) when said balls don't smell like rose petals and Oprah's favorite lowfat lemon bread recipe. I mostly agree with moving on to a new coach, but I hate to see the entitled, whiny little pansies at the OWH get their scalp.
much peace,
tjb
I'm ambivalent about Pelini, and thus about his firing. I think he's actually a pretty good guy and, in my inexpert opinion, a pretty good coach, but I don't really care that he's gone. I mean, he didn't win an outright conference title in his ninth season like Saint Tom Holy Christ Almighty Osborne, and he didn't finally win a national title in his 21st season like St. Tom H.C.A. Osborne, but at least Pelini didn't intimidate Kate McEwen and her family and sweetly coddle the guy who assaulted her, and at least he didn't help to hide Riley Washington's gun from the cops. Real Men Don't Use Porn,apparently, but they do drag women down the stairs, slap them around, then star in the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl.
What Pelini did do, alas, was hurt and offend Dirk Chatelain's gold-plated vagina so severely that Dirk cried bitter black and white years all over the newspaper for almost a year afterward. If only Bo had supported the assault and battery of college age women, but did so in a dry, folksy way that amused and simultaneously stroked the tender egos of OWH sportswriters.... Oh well, the only person who really suffers in all of this is Poor Dirk. After all, what is he going to cry about now?
Update: In case you don't know how Chatelain earned the contempt of Bo Pelini (along with that of any actual man who has attached and descended testicles), Chatelain penned a horribly constructed piece of shit hatchet job (which is almost exclusively what Chatelain does) about Taylor Martinez in 2011, then got a touch of the vapors and almost fainted away when Pelini called him on it at a press conference. The rest of the Omaha World Herald sportswriters all boiled out to white knight for Fair Maiden Dirk, and they've all been on the same ovulation cycle since. Those testosterone-devoid Sallys not only think nothing of ripping a 19-year-old ballplayer who played hurt and left it all on the field, they also believe they are Entitled to do so without any response or criticism leveled in their direction.
Fact: Chatelain is a simpering little weasel of a jock sniffer who desperately wants entry into the world of athletic male balls, but then is shocked, (shocked, I tell you!!!) when said balls don't smell like rose petals and Oprah's favorite lowfat lemon bread recipe. I mostly agree with moving on to a new coach, but I hate to see the entitled, whiny little pansies at the OWH get their scalp.
much peace,
tjb
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Atonement
When I left the rehab hospital last summer, I went home in a turtle shell body brace and neck collar, and once again humping around on crutches. Prognosis was full recovery, but with a minimum of at least a year before I approached normal locomotion, and perhaps never reaching my previous level of athleticism (pedestrian as it may have been). I was so goddamn happy to be alive and out, though, that I couldn't bring myself to care too much about the temporary physical setbacks. I was content to stump around the house and yard getting incrementally stronger; content to simply revel in not being dead, or stuck with IVs, or strapped down and ventilated ... or so I thought.
One night I subsided into bed in my shell as usual, and after unstrapping and doing the careful back and forth to lever myself out of it, I quickly passed out. I dreamt, vividly, that I was on a long bike ride with Maury, Craig and some other folks. We were in the middle of riding home from a lakeside resort in Minnesota, and we had risen and left at dawn from our campsite in northern South Dakota. We stopped for breakfast at a McDonald's, of all places, and left our bicycles and gear at a wooden station constructed specifically for that purpose. Upon reaching the cash register, I realized I had left my wallet out with my gear. Amid the expected ribbing from my friends, I hurried out to get it. Time morphed in the way it does in dreams, and of a sudden I realized that Maury and Co. were back on their bikes (still laughing at Burbach, of course), and starting to ride away. Deciding in that instant to forgo breakfast, I started to jog towards my bicycle to catch up with them and then ... I was just running. Without effort or hindrance, I was running. Across the parking lot in the early sun, through the damp grass and out onto the highway, I ate up the miles. Craig and the team were long gone, my bicycle forgotten, and I was sprinting, flying, non-stop to everywhere and nowhere. I ran until what seemed like early afternoon, when I slowed to a halt alone at the end of a little wooden footbridge spanning a little creek in central South Dakota. Again, the dream shifted. In a curious juxtaposition of consciousness, I stood among the trees by the creek, and simultaneously inhabited the tired broken body I'd left lying on the narrow bed back in the really real world. My dream body was whole, strong and filled to bursting with energy and the liberty of flight, fidgeting to run farther and faster. Almost instantly, though, I was plunged into wakefulness, my leg and back throbbing, and the pillow wet from unconscious tears. In myself, I am scornful of the pointless weakness of self-pity; but for a few minutes that morning, I was awash in mourning for remembered health and function. Reminding myself, though, that much worse things have happened to much nicer guys than me, I ultimately shoved the self-pity into the dark corner where it belongs, levered myself back into my shell and crutched out to start the day.
Fast forward 15 months, and I'm running in the real world. Just on the treadmill at the gym, but journey of a thousand miles, blah, blah, blah. I started three weeks ago with .20 mile intervals, walking in between. I've since increased my running interval to.65 miles, alternating with sets of anaerobic exercise. The pain is considerable, but the last year has found me in a long-term, committed relationship with that particular sensation. We're the proverbial old married couple, she and I, and I go about my business with her comforting voice ceaselessly muttering and criticizing in the background.
The running I do in real life is a clumsy, plodding exercise in penance. It's nothing like the coruscating flight of my dream. Except that it is. Somewhere beneath the thudding, uneven steps, beneath the drudgery, discomfort and the smell of hot self, there is a small core of concentrated and joyous intensity, not so unlike that effortless sprint across the landscape of South Dakota. Maybe it's the years of wrestling practice, or the rehabs after twice tearing my ACL, or maybe it's the aforementioned intimacy I've developed with my pain receptors, but I absolutely find exhilaration in struggle.
Anyway, I'm off to the gym to run.
much peace,
tjb
One night I subsided into bed in my shell as usual, and after unstrapping and doing the careful back and forth to lever myself out of it, I quickly passed out. I dreamt, vividly, that I was on a long bike ride with Maury, Craig and some other folks. We were in the middle of riding home from a lakeside resort in Minnesota, and we had risen and left at dawn from our campsite in northern South Dakota. We stopped for breakfast at a McDonald's, of all places, and left our bicycles and gear at a wooden station constructed specifically for that purpose. Upon reaching the cash register, I realized I had left my wallet out with my gear. Amid the expected ribbing from my friends, I hurried out to get it. Time morphed in the way it does in dreams, and of a sudden I realized that Maury and Co. were back on their bikes (still laughing at Burbach, of course), and starting to ride away. Deciding in that instant to forgo breakfast, I started to jog towards my bicycle to catch up with them and then ... I was just running. Without effort or hindrance, I was running. Across the parking lot in the early sun, through the damp grass and out onto the highway, I ate up the miles. Craig and the team were long gone, my bicycle forgotten, and I was sprinting, flying, non-stop to everywhere and nowhere. I ran until what seemed like early afternoon, when I slowed to a halt alone at the end of a little wooden footbridge spanning a little creek in central South Dakota. Again, the dream shifted. In a curious juxtaposition of consciousness, I stood among the trees by the creek, and simultaneously inhabited the tired broken body I'd left lying on the narrow bed back in the really real world. My dream body was whole, strong and filled to bursting with energy and the liberty of flight, fidgeting to run farther and faster. Almost instantly, though, I was plunged into wakefulness, my leg and back throbbing, and the pillow wet from unconscious tears. In myself, I am scornful of the pointless weakness of self-pity; but for a few minutes that morning, I was awash in mourning for remembered health and function. Reminding myself, though, that much worse things have happened to much nicer guys than me, I ultimately shoved the self-pity into the dark corner where it belongs, levered myself back into my shell and crutched out to start the day.
Fast forward 15 months, and I'm running in the real world. Just on the treadmill at the gym, but journey of a thousand miles, blah, blah, blah. I started three weeks ago with .20 mile intervals, walking in between. I've since increased my running interval to.65 miles, alternating with sets of anaerobic exercise. The pain is considerable, but the last year has found me in a long-term, committed relationship with that particular sensation. We're the proverbial old married couple, she and I, and I go about my business with her comforting voice ceaselessly muttering and criticizing in the background.
The running I do in real life is a clumsy, plodding exercise in penance. It's nothing like the coruscating flight of my dream. Except that it is. Somewhere beneath the thudding, uneven steps, beneath the drudgery, discomfort and the smell of hot self, there is a small core of concentrated and joyous intensity, not so unlike that effortless sprint across the landscape of South Dakota. Maybe it's the years of wrestling practice, or the rehabs after twice tearing my ACL, or maybe it's the aforementioned intimacy I've developed with my pain receptors, but I absolutely find exhilaration in struggle.
Anyway, I'm off to the gym to run.
much peace,
tjb
Monday, November 3, 2014
Friday, October 3, 2014
We Interrupt This Broadcast ...
... to bring you an update on a matter of great significance:
It's officially October, and the Royals are still playing ball!!!!!!!!!
Please pardon the nostalgia from a middle-aged, long-suffering Royals fan. My old man and my big brother Chris took me to Game 5 of the 1985 ALCS. I was 12, and it's one of the best memories of my childhood. Royals were down 3-1 in the series, had to win to stay in. Danny Jackson pitched a gem, and KC manufactured two small ball runs and held on.
That team was a bunch of fighters, and while I know better than to make any predictions, this 2014 squad is satisfying to watch for the same reason.
much peace,
tjb
It's officially October, and the Royals are still playing ball!!!!!!!!!
Please pardon the nostalgia from a middle-aged, long-suffering Royals fan. My old man and my big brother Chris took me to Game 5 of the 1985 ALCS. I was 12, and it's one of the best memories of my childhood. Royals were down 3-1 in the series, had to win to stay in. Danny Jackson pitched a gem, and KC manufactured two small ball runs and held on.
That team was a bunch of fighters, and while I know better than to make any predictions, this 2014 squad is satisfying to watch for the same reason.
much peace,
tjb
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Ebola Is Here
http://news.yahoo.com/dallas-er-sent-ebola-infected-patient-home-050718374.html
About 80 people (they think) have had direct contact with this guy.What's the CDC going to do when they find the next infection outside that web? Why in all the cold hells do we not have a travel ban from the affected countries? I'm not really a conspiracy theorist, but one way or the other, we've been betrayed. Either those in power want the disease to spread here, or they are simply horribly incompetent and have not taken the necessary stringent measures to prevent it from doing so. Whichever, it's going to spread.
William has anxiously asked me multiple times lately if Ebola "could happen here." I have reassured him each time that no, it cannot. Apparently I'm a dirty liar, because it's absolutely happening here.
much peace,
tjb
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
The Holy Bearded Unicorn Says to Protect Pedophiles
The Catholic church does it again.
http://cnsnews.com/commentary/fr-frank-pavone/state-demands-la-priest-violate-confessional-or-go-jail
What the Holy Sacred Jesus Christ Almighty Uber-Priest writing this article deliberately leaves out is that the crime the church wants to keep hidden is the continuing sexual assault of a 12-year-old girl by a parishoner.
Here's the thing: I don't give the smallest fuck about your double secret supernatural lucky charms confessional that magically confers legal immunity to its participants. I really don't. I also could not possibly care less about the state of the retarded and imaginary "immortal souls" that you consider so much more important than the actual really real world violation and agony of a really real world 12-year-old child. That's the church, though, and religion in general. Their made-up superfriends club abstractions, and their loyalty to those brands, will ultimately and ALWAYS trump competing interests in the real world.
I hope both the piece of shit abuser and the characteristically enabling piece of shit priest (I know, redundant) both get their balls stuck in a bicycle chain before falling into fire ant mounds.
much peace (but not for wacky cult leaders)
tjb
http://cnsnews.com/commentary/fr-frank-pavone/state-demands-la-priest-violate-confessional-or-go-jail
What the Holy Sacred Jesus Christ Almighty Uber-Priest writing this article deliberately leaves out is that the crime the church wants to keep hidden is the continuing sexual assault of a 12-year-old girl by a parishoner.
Here's the thing: I don't give the smallest fuck about your double secret supernatural lucky charms confessional that magically confers legal immunity to its participants. I really don't. I also could not possibly care less about the state of the retarded and imaginary "immortal souls" that you consider so much more important than the actual really real world violation and agony of a really real world 12-year-old child. That's the church, though, and religion in general. Their made-up superfriends club abstractions, and their loyalty to those brands, will ultimately and ALWAYS trump competing interests in the real world.
I hope both the piece of shit abuser and the characteristically enabling piece of shit priest (I know, redundant) both get their balls stuck in a bicycle chain before falling into fire ant mounds.
much peace (but not for wacky cult leaders)
tjb
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
OMG! UR Such a Silly Bitch!!!
http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/nation/2014/09/01/woman-texting-impaled-buttocks/14918723/
We are a society comprised almost entirely of narcissistic teenage girls. We cannot for one moment be separated from the constant communication and affirmation we so desperately need.
When I see someone on their goddamn phone in traffic, I automatically (and accurately) think, "Oh look, a socially retarded teenage drama queen who can't go ten minutes without someone paying attention to her."
Seriously. It doesn't matter what age or gender you believe you are. If you're texting on the road, you are a narcissistic teenage girl.
much peace,
tjb
We are a society comprised almost entirely of narcissistic teenage girls. We cannot for one moment be separated from the constant communication and affirmation we so desperately need.
When I see someone on their goddamn phone in traffic, I automatically (and accurately) think, "Oh look, a socially retarded teenage drama queen who can't go ten minutes without someone paying attention to her."
Seriously. It doesn't matter what age or gender you believe you are. If you're texting on the road, you are a narcissistic teenage girl.
much peace,
tjb
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
No Shit, Dick Tracy
Anyone who thought that the invasion of Iraq was going to turn out any differently than it is was a complete fucking moron, as I stated multiple times during the lead-up to and execution of this foreign policy abortion.
Invade, break the infrastructure, demolish the security and lose billions. Check.
For the folks who say we should stay until we "win." You're fucking retarded. Unless we were to A) Turn it into a parking lot or B) Stay there and rule it for 7 or 8 generations, there was never going to be any "winning." This was a big yowling ball of feral cats from the beginning.
As I stated 5 years ago:
Are we safer with 600,000 - 1 million Iraqis dead? I doubt it. After 9/11, this country reserved the right to remember and hate without stint or discretion. What about the Iraqi shopkeeper who saw his son blown in half by good old American know-how, or the 8-year-old who saw his parents murdered in an elective war? Don't the friends and relatives of the dead and maimed in Iraq and Gaza have the same perpetual right to rage and hatred that I would if my toddlers were murdered by another country's bombs, or is the horrible choking, desperate grief of middle-eastern non-christians and non-Jews somehow less real, their bereavement less keen, because American exceptionalism has designated their sacrifice acceptable?
Let's for a moment pretend that these actions have made us safer, rather than simply hardening another generation of anti-American sentiment. I still can't look another father in the eye and say, "your child shall be killed, blown apart, so that mine can maintain the lifestyle to which he is accustomed," or to another son, "Your father will be burned to death with white phosphorous so that my old man can retire without stress." The price is too great.
Self-congratulatory, preening fucks like W.F. Buckley will prate about the existential threat; neocons think it's our divine right to conquer the world. The world bank, the military-industrial complex, and all their economic hit men think only of profit. I just can't get that orphaned father out of my head. I know how I would feel if my boys were taken from me. There is no amount of bloodshed that would sate me, no salve would tame the violence. Our American attitude, though, doesn't recognize our murders as real people or real deaths, just acceptable statistics in pursuit of our "interests." I don't know, maybe we've killed enough people to make us more secure for a little while. I don't think attrition is a long-term fix, though, unless we're willing to implement a Final Solution and simply kill everybody whose interests run contrary to ours. Otherwise, it's only a matter of time before those we've brutalized gather enough strength and numbers to attack us again.
As Thomas McGrath said:
much peace, for us anyway
tjb
Invade, break the infrastructure, demolish the security and lose billions. Check.
For the folks who say we should stay until we "win." You're fucking retarded. Unless we were to A) Turn it into a parking lot or B) Stay there and rule it for 7 or 8 generations, there was never going to be any "winning." This was a big yowling ball of feral cats from the beginning.
As I stated 5 years ago:
Are we safer with 600,000 - 1 million Iraqis dead? I doubt it. After 9/11, this country reserved the right to remember and hate without stint or discretion. What about the Iraqi shopkeeper who saw his son blown in half by good old American know-how, or the 8-year-old who saw his parents murdered in an elective war? Don't the friends and relatives of the dead and maimed in Iraq and Gaza have the same perpetual right to rage and hatred that I would if my toddlers were murdered by another country's bombs, or is the horrible choking, desperate grief of middle-eastern non-christians and non-Jews somehow less real, their bereavement less keen, because American exceptionalism has designated their sacrifice acceptable?
Let's for a moment pretend that these actions have made us safer, rather than simply hardening another generation of anti-American sentiment. I still can't look another father in the eye and say, "your child shall be killed, blown apart, so that mine can maintain the lifestyle to which he is accustomed," or to another son, "Your father will be burned to death with white phosphorous so that my old man can retire without stress." The price is too great.
Self-congratulatory, preening fucks like W.F. Buckley will prate about the existential threat; neocons think it's our divine right to conquer the world. The world bank, the military-industrial complex, and all their economic hit men think only of profit. I just can't get that orphaned father out of my head. I know how I would feel if my boys were taken from me. There is no amount of bloodshed that would sate me, no salve would tame the violence. Our American attitude, though, doesn't recognize our murders as real people or real deaths, just acceptable statistics in pursuit of our "interests." I don't know, maybe we've killed enough people to make us more secure for a little while. I don't think attrition is a long-term fix, though, unless we're willing to implement a Final Solution and simply kill everybody whose interests run contrary to ours. Otherwise, it's only a matter of time before those we've brutalized gather enough strength and numbers to attack us again.
As Thomas McGrath said:
And now, you celebrated American jackasses:
You still want war?
Go let a hole in the head shed light on your darkling brain-
Remember Vietnam?
You still want war?
Go let a hole in the head shed light on your darkling brain-
Remember Vietnam?
Go and be damned!
But don’t count on me for nothing you righteous
stupid sons of bitches !
But don’t count on me for nothing you righteous
stupid sons of bitches !
much peace, for us anyway
tjb
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Lazy Day
The boys and I went out and drowned a few worms today. We found a couple of shady spots, and it stayed breezy and cool all afternoon. Fishing was slow, but the boys caught several small bluegill. They also found a duck and her ducklings, all four of whom appeared unafraid and content to be observed at close range.
much peace,
tjb
much peace,
tjb
Friday, June 13, 2014
Interlude
I left work on my bicycle on Wednesday, and decided to add just a couple miles to the ride home. I cut through Calvary Cemetery and out to 78th and Center, then turned into Pipal Park. There were picnic tables in the shade on the west side of the park, and I took a half an hour to sit in the shifting sun and shade, to drink in the breeze and too-sweet coffee, and to revel for a while in the winsome airs of Faulkner's honeysuckle.
much peace,
tjb
much peace,
tjb
Monday, June 9, 2014
Out in the Field
"In a lily pond I lay
All upon a summer's day
Then I chased a dragonfly
All across an ancient sky ...."
All upon a summer's day
Then I chased a dragonfly
All across an ancient sky ...."
(Vashti Bunyan)
Spent over two hours at Churchich Park working on baseball skills with the boys yesterday. I pitched some BP, practiced power position for throwing, and shagged fly balls and grounders at them. They were all in. I had to get pretty firm with them to get them to stop when it was time to go.
A few weeks ago, they had a game wherein Will just could not get his bat on a pitch. It's coach pitch, which means each batter gets around 10 pitches. If he's unable to hit any, then he has to hit one off the tee. Will had to use the tee all three at bats. He was crushed. His swings just got weaker and more tentative each time up. Max was able to hit a pitch time, but his swing, too, was ugly and weak. They were both moving the bat tentatively, just hoping to intercept the ball, rather than swinging away.
So the following Tuesday, I pulled out an older, heavier bat, and started throwing BP. I wasn't going to push, but both boys were invested in improving. I've also never played a lick of baseball myself, so I wasn't sure if anything I could do would help much. Thankfully, the boys' work ethic and dad's dogged, if inexpert, instruction paid off. Max is now turning on pitches and pulling major rips up the third base line, and Will is finally letting the bat head fly and letting his quick hands do the work. I bought them a new bat ( and myself a cheap glove in self defense), and they are all in. When I pick them up now, it's, "Hey dad, can we hit right when we get there, I mean right away?" They're now excited to get up to bat, and they both had multiple good knocks in their last two games. Nothing breeds enthusiasm like a little success.
Here's the thing: it's just sports. I don't care if they end up playing or liking them, though I do think team activities are good for kids, and physical play is a necessity one way or the other. Ultimately, though, I don't care if they want to be baseball players, gymnasts, concert pianists, ballerinas or hairdressers. Whatever makes them happy. The takeaway from the last three weeks, and what I find so satisfying as a father, is the persistence my sons showed in improving their skill and performance at a given activity. It's certainly more fun that my sons are dialed in to something that I think is fun as well, but that developing work ethic is going to serve them no matter what they decide to pursue.
much peace,
tjb
Sunday, June 8, 2014
Quick Drive to the Snowline
My Dad's brother, Jim, died a few weeks back, and Dad and all us eight kids went out to Denver for services. Other folks have eulogized Uncle Jim much more capably than I could, so I'll just post a few photographs of Mike's and my morning drive up to Berthoud Pass.
much peace,
tjb
much peace,
tjb
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Back in Motion
I replaced my demolished bicycle a couple months ago, and have been bike commuting to work again. I've also been working in some longer rides: to Whole Foods and back now and then to resupply coffee, around town to meet friends for beers and coffee and just generally cruising around. It's good to be rolling with the earth again, struggling up hills and sweating my cute little Bavarian ass off. I like the rapid succession of scenery, and the sensation of packing mile after mile into these old legs.
I went on a couple of rides over Memorial Day weekend, one short (about 5.5 miles) with my boys on Sunday, and a longer one (about 30 miles) by myself on Monday. The boys had a great time on Sunday. Below is a stop for apples and rest at roughly the halfway point.
I rode downtown the next day, then explored the technically closed road past Freedom Park to the Anchor Inn. The whole area is federal flood control land now, with no trespassing signs periodically posted. The Anchor Inn and stage are a total loss from the 2011 flooding, and all the old cabins and trailers sit empty, windows broken out and sides gutted for potential copper. As I rode down and back out, I was glad it was the middle of the day and not twilight. Quiet except for the calls of red-winged blackbirds and the hum of spring insects, the wrecked, abandoned buildings and piles of sandbags seemed like things out of a horror flick. Dim the lights and drain the color, and those yawning openings are where the zombies or cannibals would lie in wait. A couple of turkey vultures circled high overhead and, crazily, followed my progress along the degraded old road.
Freedom Park
...and the Anchor Inn and stage. I leaned in through a broken window to take the inside pics. I remember seeing the Wailers on that stage several years back. Now it's slowly folding down into the river.
...a few more from the trek into federal flood control...
I ended up riding all the way around the back of the airport on Lindbergh Plaza ...
... then back on the Riverfront Trail past Carter Lake and back through downtown before turning west for home. I did stop for an iced cuppa at the 16th Street Starbucks. Obligatory self portrait, with helmet hair, and a little the worse for wear:
much peace,
tjb
I went on a couple of rides over Memorial Day weekend, one short (about 5.5 miles) with my boys on Sunday, and a longer one (about 30 miles) by myself on Monday. The boys had a great time on Sunday. Below is a stop for apples and rest at roughly the halfway point.
I rode downtown the next day, then explored the technically closed road past Freedom Park to the Anchor Inn. The whole area is federal flood control land now, with no trespassing signs periodically posted. The Anchor Inn and stage are a total loss from the 2011 flooding, and all the old cabins and trailers sit empty, windows broken out and sides gutted for potential copper. As I rode down and back out, I was glad it was the middle of the day and not twilight. Quiet except for the calls of red-winged blackbirds and the hum of spring insects, the wrecked, abandoned buildings and piles of sandbags seemed like things out of a horror flick. Dim the lights and drain the color, and those yawning openings are where the zombies or cannibals would lie in wait. A couple of turkey vultures circled high overhead and, crazily, followed my progress along the degraded old road.
Freedom Park
...and the Anchor Inn and stage. I leaned in through a broken window to take the inside pics. I remember seeing the Wailers on that stage several years back. Now it's slowly folding down into the river.
...a few more from the trek into federal flood control...
I ended up riding all the way around the back of the airport on Lindbergh Plaza ...
... then back on the Riverfront Trail past Carter Lake and back through downtown before turning west for home. I did stop for an iced cuppa at the 16th Street Starbucks. Obligatory self portrait, with helmet hair, and a little the worse for wear:
much peace,
tjb
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
So I'm a Cat Person Now
I generally hate cats. I don't like their smell, their features or their adorable little antics; and their freaky owners usually wig me out too.
In this one case, however, I am 100% pro-cat. Pro-mountain lion, specifically. To be precise, I have become a die hard fan of the estimated 22 mountain lions that inhabit the state of Nebraska; the ones upon which the State of Nebraska has declared open season. In any conflict between hunter and cougar in Nebraska, I am absolutely and without reservation rooting for the big cat.
I don't have a problem with hunting. I think harvesting one's own meat is actually superior to purchasing corporate raised and slaughtered beef and pork at the supermarket. I also have no problem with killing a threatening animal (key word: threatening). Furthermore, I really don't have an issue with a farmer shooting a predator endangering his livestock.
Here's the thing, though. According to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission there is not one documented case of a mountain lion attack on a human in Nebraska. Not one. Game and Parks has also been unable to definitively attribute any livestock deaths to mountain lions. I don't doubt that there have been farm animals killed by one of the big cats at some point since 1867, but the number is so few as to be statistically nonexistent, particularly since their virtual extermination in the state in the 1890s. Nobody is being attacked, and the current population of less then 30 cats is not a viable threat to people or livestock. In addition, Nebraska law already allowed for killing mountain lions that threaten people or attack or attempt to attack livestock. Given that we live in a Gun Lust red state, that allowance would be stretched as far as necessary for anyone who saw a cougar and, a la South Park, yelled, "It's comin' right at us, Ned!"
Of course, safety, conservation and sense don't matter one bit to the dumb rednecks in this state, who would like nothing better than to power their ATVs with spotted owls, sandhill cranes and bald eagles. They just gots ta git thar shoot on when they're not gettin' liquored up watching other dumb rednecks turn left for three hours, or beating their wives when the Huskers lose (seriously, domestic violence rises measurably after a Husker loss). So who cares if mountain lions aren't a threat? Who cares if there's only 22 of them? Who cares if there's no use in shooting them? By Jesus Holy Christ, it's our goldurned right to shoot anything that moves, and we're gettin right tired of only pluggin' away at them deer and pheasant.
Our dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' lawmakers, of course, agreed with their dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' constituents, and they've opened two hunting seasons on a population of approximately 22 mountain lions. Sometimes it's embarrassing to be a Nebraskan.
So: I'm rooting for the underdog, or the under-cat in this case. If some dumb hick goof in his uber-cool wraparounds takes his gun and goes hunting for, to quote the World Herald, "... elusive and reclusive mountain lions ... ," I hope he finds them, and I hope the big cat wins. I hope the dumb redneck bastard gets caught looking the wrong way and gets his stupid redneck ass mauled.
Go Cats!
much peace, sort of,
tjb
In this one case, however, I am 100% pro-cat. Pro-mountain lion, specifically. To be precise, I have become a die hard fan of the estimated 22 mountain lions that inhabit the state of Nebraska; the ones upon which the State of Nebraska has declared open season. In any conflict between hunter and cougar in Nebraska, I am absolutely and without reservation rooting for the big cat.
I don't have a problem with hunting. I think harvesting one's own meat is actually superior to purchasing corporate raised and slaughtered beef and pork at the supermarket. I also have no problem with killing a threatening animal (key word: threatening). Furthermore, I really don't have an issue with a farmer shooting a predator endangering his livestock.
Here's the thing, though. According to the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission there is not one documented case of a mountain lion attack on a human in Nebraska. Not one. Game and Parks has also been unable to definitively attribute any livestock deaths to mountain lions. I don't doubt that there have been farm animals killed by one of the big cats at some point since 1867, but the number is so few as to be statistically nonexistent, particularly since their virtual extermination in the state in the 1890s. Nobody is being attacked, and the current population of less then 30 cats is not a viable threat to people or livestock. In addition, Nebraska law already allowed for killing mountain lions that threaten people or attack or attempt to attack livestock. Given that we live in a Gun Lust red state, that allowance would be stretched as far as necessary for anyone who saw a cougar and, a la South Park, yelled, "It's comin' right at us, Ned!"
Of course, safety, conservation and sense don't matter one bit to the dumb rednecks in this state, who would like nothing better than to power their ATVs with spotted owls, sandhill cranes and bald eagles. They just gots ta git thar shoot on when they're not gettin' liquored up watching other dumb rednecks turn left for three hours, or beating their wives when the Huskers lose (seriously, domestic violence rises measurably after a Husker loss). So who cares if mountain lions aren't a threat? Who cares if there's only 22 of them? Who cares if there's no use in shooting them? By Jesus Holy Christ, it's our goldurned right to shoot anything that moves, and we're gettin right tired of only pluggin' away at them deer and pheasant.
Our dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' lawmakers, of course, agreed with their dumb, redneck, tobaccy-chawin' constituents, and they've opened two hunting seasons on a population of approximately 22 mountain lions. Sometimes it's embarrassing to be a Nebraskan.
So: I'm rooting for the underdog, or the under-cat in this case. If some dumb hick goof in his uber-cool wraparounds takes his gun and goes hunting for, to quote the World Herald, "... elusive and reclusive mountain lions ... ," I hope he finds them, and I hope the big cat wins. I hope the dumb redneck bastard gets caught looking the wrong way and gets his stupid redneck ass mauled.
Go Cats!
much peace, sort of,
tjb
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